


Take This Deafening Thunder Down

by dr_zook



Category: Krabat | The Satanic Mill - Otfried Preußler
Genre: Canon Compliant, During Canon, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Pre-Canon, you're welcome to have a guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13026828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: It's the beginning of Juro's fifth year now. He has washed and buried the fourth corpse.





	Take This Deafening Thunder Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karmageddon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karmageddon/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I hope you're enjoying this at least a little bit. 
> 
> You wanted to read about _the other boys and how they got there, anything about their friendships_ , and _an ending that is not at least a little upbeat_ (the Lord knows I tried hard), and well, I guess there you go. :D
> 
> The title is a line from the song _Let The Bells Ring_ (Nick Cave  & The Bad Seeds, Abattoir Blues).
> 
> A billion ♥s aren't enough to thank L. for their beta. I'll pay for your next cocktail at Antony's, dear.

It's close to Midsummer, the evenings are growing warm enough to sit outside after supper, and to tell each other stories, or whittle away. Plucking strings, sitting in the grass behind the mill. Watching the gnats gather.  
  
Juro has been tending the animals, checking their feeding during these early summer days. As he steps outside the pigsty, latching the bolt, he is addressed by someone he doesn't know.  
  
"Good day," a bright-eyed youth greets him; standing a bit disoriented between the mill door and Juro.  
  
Juro slowly nods at him-- wondering if he has ever seen visitors call the mill. If there were ever boys of a certain age coming here, other than on that one day at the beginning of a new year.  
  
"Can you tell me, are there any other mills around here?" the stranger asks. "I'm looking for-- someone." He has a gentle voice, and flicks unkempt hair from his face.  
  
Before Juro can answer he hears hushed laughter from behind the mill, where the others are lingering. The foreign boy has heard them, too. Something in his gaze flickers.  
  
"Whom are you looking for, lad?" A growl from behind Juro. He grips the basket with the left-over turnips tighter.  
  
The Master separates himself from the shade of the blackthorn shrub. An ounce of wonder is tinting his voice.  
  
"Merten," the boy just says.  
  
Ice-cold water speeds down Juro's spine. Merten had arrived at the mill at Epiphany; a sturdy boy, eager to be useful. He took his time to smile, unsure around the others at first. His eyes are ever wistful.  
  
And Juro has noticed the new boy's habit of hovering around the wash trough in the mornings. When the other fellows shed their nightshirts, not quite ready to let the clammy waters wake them, Merten hesitates longer than the others.  
  
The Master's laugh bellows. "I have no idea how you found us, but here you are." His one eye pierces the visitor.  
  
"So, is he here?" Something lifts from around the boy's shoulders.  
  
The Master tilts his head slightly, estimating the other. "What if he is."  
  
"Then I want to see him."  
  
"What for?"  
  
The lad's gaze wavers, yet he looks committed. "It's been half a year since he disappeared," he says. "Later they told me he'd mumbled something about a mill, here at the Black Waters." The fingers clutching the cap in front of his belly turn white, there's a catch in his voice. "I wasn't around when he left."  
  
"I'm the Master here," the Master says. "And I don't permit the acquaintance you're asking for."  
  
Juro wonders about the Master's patience. Why does he let Juro witness their exchange?  
  
The boy seems intimidated, yet he does not leave. "Please," he says. "I want to know if he's alright."  
  
The Master assesses him. There is a communication between them without words, or maybe it's just the Master reading him. "Come back next year, if you mean it."  
  
The boy's eyes widen. "I want to see him now!"  
  
"You won't. Come in January, or never." The Master spits out. "You decide." He turns on his heels and leaves, not caring for what happens next.  
  
Juro feels sick, sweat dribbles from his brow and neck.  
  
Accusingly the visitor grabs Juro's shoulder. "What's going on here?"  
  
Juro struggles with himself. Why can't he just make himself disappear? He hasn't learned that yet, unfortunately. "I'm sorry," he stammers. It's the first thing for him to say.  
  
The other releases him with a sigh. "I'm Michal," he then introduces himself.  
  
Juro nods and says, "Juro."  
  
Michal stares at him, waiting. The pigs are snuffling loudly, rooting around in the fresh hay.  
  
"He's well," Juro eventually offers. He can't meet Michal's eyes, although it's the truth.

 

.:.

 

  
It's the beginning of Juro's fifth year now. He has washed and buried the fourth corpse.  
  
It's the eve of Epiphany, and the fellows are returning to their chamber beneath the roof. It's cold, and they are worn-out and sore.  
  
Janko's bed isn't empty anymore. The new boy is sitting up, putting his bare feet down on the ground. His eyes are full of wonder and impatience. It's Michal.  
  
Juro has to grapple for the nearest wall, something the others don't notice.  
  
Before anybody else can introduce themselves Merten is rushing towards Michal to kneel in front of him, bracing himself on Michal's thighs. They exchange no words, but their foreheads touch, and Michal holds Merten's face gently in his hands. Their breathing is the only thing the others can hear.  
  
Then Merten blinks a few times, and murmurs, "He's my cousin."  
  
The fellows look at each other in wonder, eyebrows raised. Anyone with their eyes open could see, would see that they were not brothers by blood, but in flesh and heart.  
  
The others don't seem to care. Silent Kito simply states, "Alright, but the rest of us don't know your name yet."  
  
Juro has to swallow and turn around. He wonders how long he will manage to keep the screams inside.

 

.:.

  
  
  
It's Krabat's second year at the mill, and the second afternoon after the cockfight. The Master has himself still locked-up in his chamber, the fellows move on tip-toes through the house.  
  
Juro is preparing supper when he hears a throat cleared behind him. He looks over his shoulder, halfway expecting it to be Witko asking if there was anything for him to help.  
  
But it's Pumphutt, standing in the kitchen door. He tips his hat and turns around, clearly expecting Juro to follow.  
  
Juro puts down knife and leek, and stares at the blade for a moment. Then he gathers himself and joins the journeyman in the parlour.  
  
With a sigh Pumphutt takes a seat and grabs his left leg to hoist it over his right thigh. Then he takes off the hat, drops it on the bench. The small golden ringlet clinging to his earlobe twinkles in the sun slanting through the window behind him.  
  
"Glück zu, Juro," he states, and nods at him.  
  
Juro feels a trickle crawling over his skin as he is drawn towards the journeyman. He seems foreign, but Juro can't put his finger on why. It isn't the accent, which is from around the area: beyond the woods and moor in the east, but not too far.  
  
"I thought you were already gone," Juro says. It's a safe thing to assume loudly.  
  
Pumphutt tilts his head a bit. He retrieves a ripe ear of rye from somewhere under his frock and puts it in the corner of his mouth. It dangles merrily as he talks. "I would, I guess." The smile then unsettles Juro a bit. "But I have some questions left."  
  
Juro rips his gaze from the rye, lets it hover over Pumphutt's shoulder, the chalked wall behind. It wanders towards the jug of water residing on the middle of the table.  
  
"I can go and fetch the Master," Juro eventually says, and is about to rise, but later he'll swear his limbs just wouldn't obey his thoughts and will.  
  
"Not necessary," Pumphutt drawls. "But you can draw the circle if it makes you feel better."  
  
Juro feels himself blanch. Tentatively his hand retrieves the piece of wood from his pocket. It weighs more than one expects from its size; one end is sharpened, and it's blackened by fire.  
  
"Go on," Pumphutt says, and Juro complies. Draws the circle around their seating, and fills it with three crosses and a pentagram. "Where did you get the wood from?"  
  
"It's cornel cherry," Juro says. He adds another symbol.  
  
Pumphutt leans towards him, the bench creaks. "That's not what I was asking."  
  
Juro swallows. "Some time ago the Master told me to attach a new knob to his walking cane." He looks at the wood in his hand. "I chopped off a splint and prepared it."  
  
Pumphutt nods, "Good." He watches him closely. "And why are you still here, Juro?"  
  
Juro has to close his eyes, and fiddles with the splint.  
  
"What are you waiting for? You are well prepared." The journeyman leans back, now genuinely interested.  
  
From above there are footsteps to be heard, but none of the fellows would join them as long as Juro won't leave the circle. He sits down.  
  
"I'm doing the best I can," Juro murmurs.  
  
"It doesn't seem to work, does it." It's just an observation.  
  
"Michal and Merten--"  
  
"Well, that won't work," Pumphutt interrupts. His gaze grows compassionate. "You need someone from outside the secret brotherhood."  
  
Juro sinks down on his chair, and fiddles with the hem of his apron. "But-- Tonda, and Janko--"  
  
"You know why they went down."  
  
"Yes, because I failed," Juro says. His throat is dry. He wishes he could say that he washed and buried too many of his fellows so that he had lost count. Too many he wrapped into clean linen and put into coffins made of too fresh pine planks.  
  
But that's not true, he knows all their names. He carries them with him through the months and years. He has witnessed them all.  
  
Pumphutt dares to chuckle. "Nah. You told them as much as you knew--"  
  
"Bullshit," Juro spits at him. "I'm not a good man." His face sinks onto his palms. "I watched them how they glided away, and further down that… maw. They thought they could save themselves, and save us all."  
  
Pumphutt watches him closely. "And, what are you afraid of now?"  
  
Juro looks into Pumphutt's ageless face. "I'm afraid of going back. I don't want to. I'm making a living here. Where else would I wake up in the morning and actually matter?" A brittle laugh crawls out of his chest. "There. I said it. You can condemn me now. I'm nothing but a coward."  
  
Pumphutt takes the rye from his mouth and examines it. "It's true that you're bound to your master. And that your witchcraft diminishes from the second he's gone. Whether it disappears completely depends on how deep it is engrained in you. I do remember life without it, although that's a long time ago." He chuckles. "It's your soul that weighs you down, Juro. Think about how many else you could watch perish. Think whether there isn't somebody who you cannot bury without going down yourself."  
  
Juro refuses to think about whom the other could mean. He grips the wood tighter.  
  
"You think that your love is no use to anyone, but that's not true. Let it be your lantern." The journeyman puts the grain onto the table, and rises. Slaps his hat on again, and tips the rim. "Take care, Juro." Then he leaves the parlour without waiting for a reaction from Juro, who just stares out the window and doesn't rise until he has fought down the anger and tears threatening to spill over.

 

.:.

  
  
It's been a while since he was sent out with another fellow to sell and buy things at a village market. But with Witko becoming better around the kitchen and pens he dares to leave him alone at the hearth every few moons.  
  
And it's easier to spend half the day with Stashko, and waiting for an opportunity to slip away, than bewitching all of his fellows at once-- in order to leave the mill for a few hours. He's not good enough for that.  
  
Around noon they're as good as done in Schwarzkollm.  
  
Stashko loops rope around the last of the bags on their cart and ties it tighter. "We made good deals, I think," he says, and wipes his brow. It's a warm autumn day, the light is already golden. The linden trees and beeches look like someone tipped pots of paint over them, the lowest branches still sporting light green leaves.  
  
Juro nods. "Are you hungry? I brought some bread and meat. We can eat it on the way home."  
  
"It's a pity we can't stay for a pint of beer and watch the tavern girls." Stashko huffs.  
  
Juro tries a thoughtful face. "Why don't you hop on the box already, and I'll get us some pastry from the stall over there?" He wipes his hands on his trousers.  
  
Stashko's face lights up. He grabs Juro's shoulders and gives him a squeeze. "Very good, Juro!"  
  
And Juro takes an empty basket, turns, and rearranges his cap. On his way to the woman with the deep fried sweets he passes a group of earnest men talking to each other. One of them looks up and after a moment they recognize each other.  
  
Juro tips his hat and manages to endure the contact. "Bailiff," he says.  
  
The other man's eyes become softer and he smoothens his beard with a palm. "Good day to you, lad." He steps a bit apart from his group, closer to Juro. "It's been half a year, but we haven't forgotten how you helped us."  
  
Juro smiles, reaching in his pocket for the dried plant parts. He rubs them while he answers, "I'm glad it worked for you." He coughs and throws a look over his shoulder, to where Stashko is already rummaging through their belongings looking for the food. "Sir, I've been wondering if I could ask you for a favour."  
  
The bailiff touches Juro's arm. "I urge you to tell me."  
  
"If there were eleven journeymen knocking at your door at New Year's Eve, asking for a roof to sleep under for a handful of nights-- what would you say?"  
  
"I-- I'm not sure I understand it," the bailiff says slowly. "But of course they would be welcome." He takes a deep breath.  
  
Juro nods. "Thank you, sir." He grabs the bailiff's right hand with his own and shakes them. Somewhere behind a group of young women is laughing brightly. "You will not regret it."  
  
He then proceeds towards the sweets, treading with lighter steps. His heart beats a bit faster, crumbs of dry plant spilling from his pocket.  
  
"Those look very good, ma'am," he addresses both the pastry and the woman selling them. The sweets are made of soft yeast dough, shaped like flat loops with a thinned, brittle part in the middle. "Could you please give me twelve?"  
  
The woman beams at him. "Excellent choice!" And she stacks them into Juro's basket.  
  
"I try to bake them from time to time, but I never succeed," he admits watching her. "I gave it up, eventually."  
  
She catches his gaze. "Perhaps don't you know the most important step making them?"  
  
A clean cloth is covering the pastry now, and Juro rummages for the coins in his pouch. "I guess not," he says with a small smile.  
  
"As soon as you put them into the frying pan we, the baking women, have to gather close and laugh into it," she declares. "Otherwise the skin in the middle would break."  
  
Juro stares at her, halts counting the money into her palm. "I didn't know that."  
  
She smiles at him. "We could teach you," she says. Her braid is dangling over her shoulder, and she puts two kolache extra into his basket. "For you and your friend on your way back home."  
  
"Thank you," he stammers. He can't remember feeling this grateful before. Grabbing the basket he returns to Stashko who is already chewing bread.  
  
"Sorry," Stashko says. "I was hungry."  
  
Juro climbs the box, Stashko helping him up. "It's fine," he says and takes up the reins. "It's fine, Stashko." He is surprised he really means it.  
  
He clicks his tongue and the oxen begins to trudge back to the Kosel fen.

**Author's Note:**

> # I admit I didn't try to find a proper English translation for Pumphutt's _Glück zu_ , which is the traditional greeting between miller and journeymen, or between journeymen working at mills. One wishes luck, something you couldn't have enough of working in that profession.
> 
> # The [pastry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kniek%C3%BCchle) the woman is piling into Juro's basket is, in fact, a specialty probably not well-known around Hoyerswerda, because it's common more south: in Thuringia, parts of Bavaria and Austria. Call their appearance artistic license. *cough* But it's true you have to laugh into the fat, that's what the hags used to say in Franconia (that's where I come from). 
> 
> # I always wondered about Michal and Merten. Or, well, at least where I come from _they are cousins_ can mean... a lot. So the nature of their relationship is, for me, quite obvious. I'm also hinting at other relationships, because that's how I roll. :D
> 
> # Juro says one sentence that is rather shamelessly borrowed from the series _Black Sails_. If you spot it I'll write you a bonus.


End file.
